


Born with the Need to Be Loved

by a_forgotten_note



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hamish is just a baby, M/M, One Shot, Parentlock, Sherlock Cares, john is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:14:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_forgotten_note/pseuds/a_forgotten_note
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" Watery crystals of starlight distress slide down the infants flushed cheeks as it cries out – in vain – for a comforting presence in the cold interior of 221b Baker Street."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born with the Need to Be Loved

Watery crystals of starlight distress slide down the infants flushed cheeks as it cries out – in vain – for a comforting presence in the cold interior of 221b Baker Street. John has long since left, hurrying away with promises of returning as soon as possible, leaving Sherlock alone with a baby, despite his conscience screaming to take the baby with him. Sherlock was always at a loss, John knew, when it came to human interaction, but the child was fast asleep when he left his late sister's' baby in Sherlock's care. However, he had been in a more intimate relationship with Sherlock for nearly a year before the baby had come to them, and he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't do anything to hurt the child.

Within the confines of his bedroom, Sherlock could hear the child wailing, lifting its voice in a frail attempt to bring John back home from the grocery store, and cast aside all hope of Sherlock coming to his rescue. Fragmented traces of thought litter the landscape of his mind palace, denying him any chance to think while the baby called or someone to comfort it. It was frighteningly disturbing listening to the baby, hoping for a swift sentence of silence while the clamor of inconsolable terror ripped its way free of the baby's lungs. Sherlock held his face in his hands, wishing again in vain, that John would return and pick up the baby from the cradle that was now permanently stationed next to the sofa, hushing its cries and smiling away the rattling screams that the tiny human produced.

At first, Sherlock hadn't minded the baby, allowing the newcomer to their home with open arms simply for the fact that the child was Harriet's kin, and John was still mourning the loss of his sister to liver failure; it seemed like the practical thing to do at the time, allowing the infant to stay despite the territorial glint in his stomach that said a baby would get in the way of their relationship and work. Yet, John was taken with the baby the moment he laid eyes on it, his paternal instincts kicking in when the baby's aqua marine blue eyes locked with John's, seeing himself in the eyes of a baby he'd only known a short while. If it were any other child, Sherlock would have most likely seen the sudden change from 'stranger' to 'father' almost comical in the drastic shift of atmosphere, but this was Harriet's child, and that was all that needed to be said.

Lifting his head from his hands, Sherlock locked his jaw and glared at his bedroom door as if it were the one shrieking at him, clawing at his brain and making it nearly impossible to think; no, this was not any one objects fault, it was the fault of many things. It was the fault of Harriet Watson, recovering alcoholic that drank her way through the depression of having her wife leave her once more after their baby was born. It was the fault of Clara, allowing Harriet to become inseminated whilst their relationship was teetering on the precipice of failure. It was the fault of the medical staff at Harriet's hospital, not allowing John in on the surgery for the practical reason that he was the most capable – in Sherlock's eyes – of saving his own sister. It was the fault of the world, turning in the wrong direction for just a moment to upset the precarious balance 221b, sending John and Sherlock's balance faltering for a moment before crashing altogether with the news of Clara refusing to take the baby. It was not the baby's fault, but the world around it that sent Sherlock's mind spiraling in different directions.

Standing proved to be more of a struggle than Sherlock had expected when terrified emotions sank their teeth into his muscle, and his thighs shook with uneasy effort beneath him as he wobbled toward his door, reaching out nervously for the doorknob. Surely, the baby wouldn't be able to breathe if it continued in this way; suffocating itself beneath its tears and screams, and he could not have John return home to lose one more thing. Shuddering star-bursts of panic seized in his chest as he thought of what would happen after; no doubt John would leave, having too many bad memories and sentimental happenings lingering within the structure of the building to remain there willfully.

Even with the screams that pierced Sherlock's eardrums and caused his temples to throb, the baby was breathing when he approached its barred bed. Red faced and squirming atop a nest of blankets, John's child seemed to sense Sherlock, quieting its screeches to wobbling, gargling hums of discomfort when the consulting detective cautiously drew closer. Sherlock had never allowed himself to pay much attention to babies, they weren't very much help to the work, and John never spoke about children much for Sherlock to care;. Now, there was a distraught infant in his home, wriggling about in an ungraceful tangle of limbs that reminded Sherlock disturbingly of how he felt about his first growth-spurt; all elbows and knees with not an ounce of grace.

“There, there...” Sherlock licked his lips, holding his hands in the air as if the baby were holding a gun to his head, demanding to be consoled. This was the most uncomfortable thing Sherlock had ever done, topping even the time John had first kissed him when he had come home a bit too drunk after a night out with Lestrade; no, talking to a baby was much more humiliating. For John, Sherlock allowed himself to be humiliated, this was all for John, he assured himself. “Don't cry.”

His feeble request was met with a whimper that seemed to crawl slowly up a scale of tight, whiny pitches that left Sherlock squinting at the crib with a wracked brain; how did John wake up every night to pick up the child and rock it back to sleep? Scattered gunshots of thought ricocheted off of the inside of Sherlock's cranium as he tried to pinpoint some of the ridiculous things John would do to calm the baby; he would pick it up and hold it close to his chest. He would murmur nonsense about being cross with the world and how everything would be better tomorrow if the baby would stop crying; it was all nonsense to Sherlock. None of it made sense; the baby couldn't understand him, and wouldn't understand until it grew. Even with this thought, the baby's whine was soon becoming heaving sobs that left the tiny body gasping for breath and reaching up for Sherlock.

Discomfort was plain in Sherlock’s stature, losing his typical proper posture to hunch over the baby's resting place at the sound of the baby reaching decibels that would make dogs fifteen kilometers away howl. He didn't want to drop the baby and have John yell at him, but he also didn't want to face the wrath of John if he was expected to care for the infant in a case of a crying fit. Carefully, cautiously, Sherlock began to reach into the crib, all the while mumbling to the baby in a hope to mimic John.

“Now, don't cry.”

His hand brushed a tiny, wriggly stomach, and he marveled at the softness of the cotton shirt it wore; softer than anything John had ever worn. Sherlock attempted to be gentle, casting his fingers carefully under the arms of the baby and lifting slowly with his anxious silver eyes darting about the baby's body with a watchful eye to make sure it wouldn't break.

“See, now? Everything is alright; I know John left, and it must have been frightening to wake up with him not there. Waking up like that... is a frightening way to live, I assure you. I don't like unexpected things, either.” The baby was nearly over the crib, and it quietly watched its own feet dangling in midair while Sherlock brought him closer, inch by inch with his own words echoing through the flat, replacing the baby's cries with deep baritone mutterings. “You were very unexpected, you know. None of us knew you were coming. That's doesn't mean that I don't want you here, it just means that John is relaying most of his attention toward you, and not me anymore. That's fine; you're an infant, just a child. You deserve his attention.”

The baby watched Sherlock's eyes now, moving its jaw up and down in a vague chewing manner as it bounced its legs in a synchronized, restless movement. Sherlock had him close to his chest, and he combed through memories of John walking past him, kissing Sherlock's cheek briefly to reposition the baby on his hip and flicking on the telly while the detective brooded on the sofa. He twisted the baby to and fro, trying to find an optimal way to hold the child while the baby made popping noises with its lips and Sherlock pouted at his own thin waist.

“Yes, I know you're impatient; not as impatient as me, however. No one is as impatient as me; I am the King of Impatience, you see. John has told me that more than once.” Settling the baby's legs on either side of his left hip, Sherlock kept a solid hold on the child's back, watching a bead of drool glisten down its lip and onto its impressively soft shirt. “There now, was that so hard? Not too bad, if I do say so myself. I like getting things right. You'll have to be good so I can show John when he gets home, and ask if I'm doing it wrong... don't cry.”

Just below his ribcage, Sherlock felt a tug when the baby gave out a small whimper. Melancholy blooms of sentiment had begun to burrow themselves in a spot that had previously belonged solely to John, rooting deep in his bones and holding tight while Sherlock tried to push them away. Somehow, the baby had wiggled its way into Sherlock's heart somewhere along the way; watching him with John's blue eyes and scratching at his dressing gown with impossibly tiny fingernails. Cupping the back of the child's head with his free right hand, Sherlock brought the baby's head forward to rest in the crook between his neck and his collarbone, stroking the flaxen peach-fuzz of the baby's hair with his thumb idly as he spoke.

“I know, I know; he's gone, but he's coming back, I promise you. Hush, now... please, don't cry again. Please. Think about how sad John will be to know that I made you cry. We both know how depressing John's 'sad face' can be, so don't cry.” The baby hummed sadly into his shoulder, picking at the fabric of the dressing gown with infant interest with Sherlock registered more of John's patterns in his own actions, sway back and forth to comfort the miffed infant. “If not for me, then for John.”

Fleeting confidence took up a home in Sherlock's fairly frail ego. settling down comfortably while the baby began to drool happily on Sherlock's dressing gown. A scowl twisted the detective's expression, but somehow a smile had appeared on his face, contradicting every instinct that told him to put the child down and burn his dressing gown as soon as possible. Together, the infant and the sociopath could surely work out a mutual agreement to be quiet in the flat while John was gone, leaving the air open for Sherlock to simply talk to the baby. Wondering about the position in which Sherlock held the baby, he could recall John moving around the room with a hint of a sway in each motion.

“You like when John walks with you, don't you?” Without a positive or negative response to guide him, Sherlock took a few languid steps around the room, lacking the usual spark of raring excitement that came from a case in his steps. A coo hummed on the baby's lips, sending a cascade of saliva filled bubbles down the man's sleeve; Sherlock frowned again with no hint of malice in the expression as he stepped around John's chair and moves toward the kitchen.“You spoiled little thing.”

Sherlock changed his direction, moving along the kitchen counter slowly and continuing his train of thought while he had nothing else to say.

“Not, however, as spoiled as Mycroft; you've never met him, and I pray you never do. When we were children, Mycroft would always be with Mummy, always holding onto the hem of her dress, always making her happy, and preening when he was praised.” The baby dropped its hum to a lower tone, making Sherlock nod as if the baby had said something correct. “Yes, he was always a bit of a prude, but it's nothing you have to worry about. I keep him away from you... and John. I don't like it when he talks to John. I don't like it when anybody talks to John; he should just stay in Baker Street with the two of us, and never leave again.”

Swollen, nondescript subjugation hung over the dark crown of Sherlock’s hair, not clawing or pushing, but merely suggesting that his heart should open just enough to allow in one more human being, such as the child in his arms. Allowing silence to settle around him, Sherlock about his life as it had changed in the past three months; the baby had arrived in 221b with more pomp and circumstance than that of which Mycroft would flourish with in the room, with the Detective Inspector Lestrade coming to welcome the baby to its new home, along with Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, the latter of whom seemed vaguely disappointed. John had come home from surgery - every night they did not have a case, to which the baby was delivered to Mrs. Hudson more than a bit of hesitation on John’s part - not to kiss Sherlock and drag him off to bed where he would hardly make it over the threshold of the room before collapsing from exhaustion, but to kiss Sherlock and go to the baby instead, holding the child close and slump into his chair and fall asleep with the infant still tucked against his chest and the baby still suckling away at a bottle of formula.

This ought to frustrate Sherlock in some way, to make him detest the baby and want to let it cry until John returned, but it was difficult for him to. Not only was this child part of John’s life, whether he liked it or not, it was part of Sherlock’s life as well; filling in a gaping hole where the heat of sentiment could not be palliated by John’s hand alone. Even with these syrup sweet thoughts running in sticky, sentimental lines through his thoughts, Sherlock was aware enough to notice the baby stirring once more in his arms, scratching at the silk of his dressing gown with an uncomfortable hum. Anxiety flared briefly in Sherlock’s chest, constricting every muscle in his throat as he raced to console the fussy child.

“You shouldn’t cry; you have John’s blonde hair and his blue eyes; you will be wonderful when you grow. Why cry about the problems of now when you could so easily be looking forward to… solving a mystery, or catching a murderer?” The baby let out a sorrowful hum, and Sherlock decided that perhaps the baby could understand him, at least understanding him enough to know that a baby cannot solve crimes; not until they grow. Which can take time, or so the story goes. “When you’re older, you will be something wonderful to behold; even so, John doesn’t think I can take care of you.”

Stifling his own surge of discomfort, Sherlock lifted the baby and exchanged the bulk of the child’s weight to his right arm as he set the baby against his other hip. Creases divided the fluid fabric of the dressing gown that hung in widowed submission beneath the weight of the baby, now simply hanging messily in place of the child that was gone. Warm and soft against his shoulder, the baby settled once more, listening with minute interest as Sherlock went on.

“I don’t hold things together, you see. I take them apart to understand how they work.” Sherlock’s empty hand came up to cup the back of the baby’s head in a soothing manner; soothing himself or the baby, he couldn’t tell. “I cannot break you. If I do, John will take you away and won’t come back; he will take you somewhere you can grow and be something amazing. He’ll be so proud of you, and you won’t remember me, and I,”

Sherlock huffed a laugh that tightened the muscles in his chest before pressing his cheek to the side of the baby’s head. Reflective surfaces in the kitchen sent the light of an English setting sun flickering over the glass of the kitchen counters and onto Sherlock’s arm, casting him and the baby in a hazy golden light. A sigh echoes from Sherlock to the baby, and the detective smiled at the murky golden air around them with frustrated sorrow.  
“Oh, I… I will miss him.” The baby gurgled and Sherlock smiled in a fonder conduct, presenting the child with a kiss to its thin hair that sent flutters of affections’ butterflies swirling in his stomach. “Yes, I’ll miss you, too.”

The dissonance of Sherlock’s voice and the mumbled hums of the baby was oddly domestic in the kitchen, and the detective found himself turning on his heel to steer back toward John’s chair to sit down with the baby cradled familiarly against his own chest. It was something out of a joke; did you hear the one about the consulting detective and the baby? Yet, Sherlock found it amusing for another reason; it was not funny, but heartwarming how quickly the baby could be miffed and completely content with the change of place and position in which it lay. The floorboards of the flat tremble with the slight suggestion of a door being closed beneath them; John was home. With his heart aflutter once more, Sherlock found himself stroking the infant's’ back while he studiously admired the wall directly in front of him instead of turning his head to watch the front door.

The sound of John’s boots was a welcome sound in the growing silence of their home, and Sherlock bounced the ball of his foot against the ground as he waited for John to stumble through the door with his armful of groceries - the baby made happy ‘ah’ noises every time Sherlock’s foot lowered to the ground, jouncing the baby just enough to be amusing and not alarming. Heavy scents of rain and sweet Chinese food swept into the flat when John opened the door, settling his bags on the floor with a chorus of crinkling plastic while he took of his jacket with a huff.

“Welcome back, John.”

A pause ensued his words, and Sherlock smiled down at the baby knowingly. John hadn’t expected Sherlock to be out of his room; when he’d left, the detective had nearly ordered him to take the baby with him for the simple reason that the child was ‘too loud to conduce knowledgeable thoughts’. John recovered his composure quickly, and Sherlock heard the sound of his jacket being tossed lightly onto the table before the doctor came into his peripheral vision; turning to his partner, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at his open mouth and stunned expression.

“You… did he wake up?”

“Yes, he did. Announcing his return to reality with a loud scream.”

John nodded thoughtfully, as if this wasn’t anything new; of course, he had slipped out of bed countless times in the night to comfort the baby, so the idea of a screaming baby didn’t frighten him as much as it had Sherlock. Dark, sleepy heavy circles bracketed John’s eyes, but it didn’t hinder the open happiness that danced in those aged blue eyes; eyes that have seen the battlefield, and the same eyes that gaze at Sherlock with wonder and awe each morning. So, with a warm smile that confirmed Sherlock had done something right, John moved forward to press a kiss to his cupid bow shaped lips, chaste and light before leaning back to admire the way the baby had curled against Sherlock’s chest in content abandon.

“He wasn’t too much was he?”

There was a right answer, Sherlock was sure; something lost to him in a vague trapeze wire that had been cut from his mind some time when he was young, leaving him to bare his heart to John the only way he could. Starlight flutters of an ignorant need to please slipped over his nervous thoughts, sending him into a giddy spiral of excitement to know that he’d done something right. Lifting his chin enough to indicate his contentment with a lopsided smile, Sherlock blinked slowly.

“Never.”

This confession is met with another kiss, swallowing whatever John might’ve said in response in favor of a rush of endorphins, opium and dreamy contentment. Light pastels streaked across the back of Sherlock’s eyelids, bathing his mind in lightly bruised tones; glowing orange, a shimmering gold and an static platinum. Gone too soon, John pulled away to pad off into the kitchen, fetching his shopping and piling it on the kitchen table as he went. Sherlock sat back with the baby once more, admiring the sleep that came so easy to the child.

“Tea?”

John called from the kitchen, already setting out the kettle and flicking on the flames that danced beneath the container and sweeping back to the table with efficient, soldier movements. Happy, exhausted thoughts drift through Sherlock’s mind, slipping in their own dripping contentment while he let his head fall lazily against the back of John’s chair.

“Yes.”

When he heard two cups clinking merrily against each other as they were pulled from the cabinet, Sherlock smiled; domesticity didn’t seem as intimidating if John was with him. A child couldn’t be too terrible, as long as he had John to stand up and brush the crumbs of uneasy anxiety from his mind when it came to the child, he could do it. Any child in the world is born with the need to be loved; and Sherlock was more than happy to share his secret affection with the baby, so longs as the baby would accept it.


End file.
